Here it is, the first day of 2012. If the Mayans are correct, this will be the last time we all have to endure the fallout from New Years Eve partying. Myself, I'm just fine this morning since I long ago parted ways with the late night partying crowd. I was comfortably settled in for a night of NCAA football last night until about 9:30.
That's when I received a phone call from Co-pilot Egg.
Just to set the stage, Egg just recently had a birthday and is now old enough to be considered an adult for the purposes of voting, fighting a war, or going to prison for knocking over a liquor store, but not yet old enough to (legally) drink alcohol. That's just fine with both of us, frankly. For me it's because I'd prefer to not have to worry about her any more than I already do, and for her it's because she just doesn't seem to have any desire to imbibe.
Or so she says. There's a lot riding on trust here.
In any event, recognizing that she will be out on her own in less than a year, I've begun trying to loosen the leash a little bit with regards to her comings and goings. Sure, I still like to know where she is and when she will be back, but when she said she was going to a friend's house for a New Years Eve get together, I didn't probe too deeply for details regarding which friend, where he lived, the arrest history of his parents, currency of rabies shots, percentage of allowance spent on pornography, or any of the plethora of things I used to try to determine before granting permission. I did refuse her request to drive my car instead of hers, though, since it wasn't supposed to get cold enough for her to really need the heated seats that she likes so much.
That turned out to be a fortuitous refusal.
So, the phone call: "Hey, Dad, I'm at... wait, the sheriff is here. [click]"
Ah, nice. Nothing to worry about then.
The inevitable follow-up call came in soon (not soon enough to keep my nerves from getting seriously frayed, though) and further details were provided, albeit in the breathless, faster-than-light, deeply dramatic narrative style of a teenage girl. Which, to be perfectly honest, I have developed the ability to completely filter out.
At this point, I'm still not yet sure that I have the entire chain of events straightened out, but the gist of it is that her host's younger brother doesn't seem to think much of Ms. Egg and through some series of escalating events took it upon himself to express his displeasure with her through the convenient proxy of her car.
Now, Ms. Egg wants a new car and has for awhile, but that by no means diminishes the affection she has for her current ride. Infuriated with the damage that had been done to her baby, she decided to call 911 to request the assistance of some law enforcement officials. (We will have a little discussion regarding the appropriate nature of 911 usage later.) The net result in this case, however, was the arrival of a pair of Sheriff's deputies. They were out of their jurisdiction, so referred her to the local gendarmes. Rather than have them dispatch a cruiser to the scene, they suggested that she just go to the station to have a criminal damage report filed. As the spouse of the legal owner of the car in question and the only one willing to forgo the pleasures of NCAA football, my attendance was required at the station as well.
The report was completed by a courteous and professional young officer who let the veneer of professionalism slip just a little after speaking to the perpetrator on the phone. I overheard enough of the conversation between the officer and the vandal to fully agree with the officer's observation: "That kid is as dumb as a box of rocks."
So, that was my New Years Eve.
If the Mayans have their way, next year will be only slightly worse.
0 comments:
Post a Comment